


The Plan

by celli



Category: JAG
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-11-06
Updated: 2005-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-12 20:49:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celli/pseuds/celli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We made it sound completely innocent by making it sound not innocent at all. Doesn't make sense?  You've never worked for the Company, then.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Can Sleep While I Drive

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks most especially to Caroline Crane, who was the first person I timidly told when the story hit me, and who has been more than encouraging throughout all this. All the members of the jagslash and MenofJAGSlash lists have been great, but I need to single out Gail and Anne for their feedback, betaing, and advice. Without the three of them, this story would never have been written.

We made it sound completely innocent by making it sound not innocent at all.

Doesn't make sense? You've never worked for the Company, then.

* * *

I stalked into JAG headquarters a few days ago, wearing my favorite trenchcoat and my second-favorite scowl. I nearly ran over Tiner by one of the front desks.

"Mr. Webb!" he said. I swear, that kid has the biggest eyes I've ever seen on a human being.

I smiled. Sort of. "Tiner. Chegwidden?"

"Yes, sir."

He dashed off to the Admiral's office; I followed in a more leisurely manner. I never dash in public. Besides, I was half-hoping to hear--

"What are you doing here, Webb?"

Rabb was leaning against his office door .Mac was standing next to him, hiding a grin.

I raised an eyebrow. "You'll find out, Rabb," I said coolly before leaving him behind.

* * *

He stirs briefly beside me, shifting his legs into another impossibly cramped position. "Oh. Mac says hi," he murmurs, punctuating his statement with a small yawn.

The slap of the tires against the highway is hypnotic. I'd be asleep, too, if I weren't actually driving.

"Do you think she knew about the Plan?" I ask idly.

The Plan, capitalized deliberately, as we've come to think of it. Sort of an entity of its own. The product of too much to drink at McMurphy's one night, that's my theory. The product of living in a town where you can't do anything but get drunk with another man, that's his.

"Knowing Mac?" He snorts. "It's possible she knew before I did."

* * *

After the usual witty repartee ("Not a chance in hell, Webb!" "Do I have to call the SecNav, A.J.?"), Tiner ushered Commander Rabb and Lt. Colonel MacKenzie in. I leaned back in my chair and watched them snap to attention. Perhaps it's left over from my (thankfully brief) time in uniform, but I enjoy the carefully choreographed dance of military respect, as long as I'm not expected to perform it.

The Admiral turned his attention back to me. "Webb?" he said, with an expression that on a lesser man would be described as insolence. "Would you like to tell us about your latest bright idea?"

Very funny, A.J. "New Jersey," I said simply. Rabb and MacKenzie just stared at me.

"The CIA has a problem in...New Jersey? "Mac finally managed.

I sighed. "It's quite a nice state, actually."

"Except for the part that's harboring drug lords," Chegwidden pointed out.

Picky, picky..."Well, yes," I conceded. Then it was back into lecture mode: "There's a group based out of Ecuador that we've been investigating for some time. Their East Coast operation is based out of a small airport in coastal New Jersey. We need to get in, take a look at their operation, and get out without alerting them of our interest."

There was more...it's actually a quite elaborate and well-crafted operation, thank you, but once I'd mentioned planes, the war on drugs, and of course the SecNav, Rabb's participation was virtually guaranteed.  
He did whine a bit, just for form's sake.

He'd practiced in advance.

* * *

I can hear his breathing change again. "Are you really awake this time, or just pretending?"

"Mmm...prob'ly pretending. Long day."

I can't help but smile. That's fine."

"How long?"

"A couple more hours to Trenton." That's where we pick up the plane that will be our "in" to the airport. "You'll have to fly from there. Get some more sleep."

"Mmm...I'll be fine, Clay. Don't worry."

Why should I worry? The operation is planned down to the last detail...except, of course, for the unexpected moments you can't ever plan for. Which is how I justified bringing in outside help. Someone who can deal with those unexpected moments with ease.

No, I'm not worried about the operation.

* * *

"Webb, can I see you for a second?" Mac asked as we walked through the bullpen.

I followed her into her typically chaotic office.  
"Thanks for your help, Mac," I began awkwardly as she closed the door behind us. "I know taking over Rabb's caseload is extra work for you."

"I probably owed him one," she said. "And at least I have a couple of days to get briefed this time. So, how long do you think you'll be gone?"

"Maybe Monday or Tuesday.You can never be sure with an operation like this..."

Mac is the master of the "cut the crap" look .I didn't blush--I did _not_ blush!--but I came damn close.

"Well, have a safe trip," she said. "And Clay?"

"Yes?" She was giving me...I still can't quite describe that look. But it was making me nervous.

She laid a hand on my arm. "Be careful, Clay," she said softly.

I leaned over and kissed her cheek. She smelled like citrus.

"Thank you, Mac," I said again, and this time I meant it.

* * *

He sits all the way up. "Okay," he says with just a hint of grogginess. "Really awake this time."

"I told you to go back to sleep."

He lifts our joined hands to look at his watch. "An hour ago."

"Still...although I'm impressed that you slept at all."

"Can't you sleep in a car?"

"If I have to." I think about it for a moment. "If I force myself to. You have to trust the person driving."

"Yes, you do." I sneak a glance at him, but he's looking straight ahead. "Clay?"

I try to match his tone. "Harm?"

"Is the operation really going to last until Monday?"

Fortunately, the roads are empty this time of night, and no one's around to rear-end us as I pull rather abruptly onto the shoulder. "Why are you asking me that now?"

"I don't know..." He's still not looking at me. "We've been working on this for so long, I think I've forgotten where our 'Plan' leaves off and your 'operation' begins."

"So you want to know how far the Plan goes." I wait, endless heartbeats, until he finally looks me in the eye.

"Yeah."

"As far as you want it to, Harm," I say--and get about a half a second to register the full-blown Harmon Rabb grin before his mouth comes down on mine, and then I'm not registering anything except the most passionate kiss I've ever participated in.

Several intense minutes later I come up for air--and sanity. "After--after the operation."

"Right," he pants. "The operation."

I get back on my side of the car--and how did I manage to _leave_ my side of the car, anyway?--and pull back on the road.

We're quite a ways down the road before my conscience prompts me to say, "If you want."

"What?"

"The operation--I mean--if you want to head back as soon as we're done--" I'm sounding like a complete idiot. But if I'm not sure this is his choice...well, let's just say I have enough to torture myself over. "You can leave if you want."

He lifts my hand to his mouth, and I can feel his breath on my fingers. "Not a chance in hell, Webb," he says, and bites down on one of my knuckles--none too gently.

There's a loud scream of brakes as the car jumps over a lane or two. "Son of a _bitch_! Harmon!"

He laughs softly.The next time I look over, his eyes are closed again. He can't actually be asleep, can he? But his mouth is slightly curved, and I can't help but smile too.

Let him sleep. For now.


	2. I Won't Leave You Lonely

I think tonight was the first time an operation with JAG _didn't_ turn into a disaster.

Of course, the operation's over, but the night isn't. Not yet.

* * *

Ever (an officer and) a gentleman, he lets me take a shower first. Of course, that leaves me with precious little to do while he's taking his. I wander next door to the room that's in his name, pulling down the sheets (as if a New Jersey motel maid is working for anything but her own lousy tips; still, better to leave the impression of occupancy than raise questions). Then I drift around my own room for a while before giving up and turning on the TV.

The shower cuts off, and a minute later he walks out of the bathroom, toweling his hair dry. He's slipped back into the jeans he wore tonight and nothing else. I'm overdressed in slacks and a sweater. I even put my shoes and socks on. At least I didn't reach for the business suit. He looks at me for a moment, an unmistakable grin tugging at his lips.

"What?" I'm sure I sound cranky.

He nods back at the television. "You're watching figure skating."

I focus on ESPN2. Hell, I am. It strikes me as funny too. "Well, Harm...I _am_ gay."

He laughs out loud and collapses on the bed next to me, and suddenly--thank you, Stars on Ice--there's no nerves at all. But plenty of tension. The good kind. I pull the towel out of his hands and toss it on the floor; I can see his fingers twitch at the thought of not folding it neatly. Too bad, Rabb.

He jumps when I run a hand through his hair. When it's dry, it looks stiff and spiky, but damp, it's warm and soft. There's a small line of water, almost like a tear, running from the bottom of his hairline towards his jaw. I lean forward to press my lips to that spot, and he makes a low sound when my tongue darts out to lap up the drops.

"Do you want to wait until tomorrow?" I whisper into his ear. "It was a long night."

The next thing I know, I'm flat on my back on the bed--all right, I could have stopped it if I'd wanted to, but why the hell would I do that?--and there's nearly six and a half feet of warm, wet male on top of me. "It's about to get a lot longer, Clay."

"Thank God," I say, and he's laughing when he kisses me.

The relief is quickly replaced by a nearly mindless heat as my mouth opens under his. I have one hand clamped on his shoulder as if I could keep him in place; the other slides down his back. He jumps again when I slide one hand under the waistband of his jeans.

The obstacle of his nerves is too much. I've asked him over and over if he's sure. He can play the cautious virgin later.

He makes a small grunt of surprise when I flip him onto his back; a noise that changes into a moan when I tear our mouths apart and bite down onto his shoulder. I manage to keep my fingers from shaking long enough to undo the fly of his jeans. He shoves his hips up until his cock fills my hand. Now I am shaking. But he is too.

I look up and see his hands clenched on the edge of the headboard. Our eyes meet, and he says, "Clay. God...Clay," as my hand moves. It's slick, from my sweat or his I don't know which. His eyes drift closed as he mumbles my name again. I brace myself long enough to lean up and kiss him again. I suck his tongue into my mouth and attack it with mine as I slide my hand down his cock. As soon as my fingertips brush his balls he jerks halfway off the bed. Only the pressure of my mouth on his muffles his scream as he comes.

I nearly lose control myself from the look on his face. I suck in air through my nose until I feel the pressure level off. Then I look at him again. His eyes have opened just enough for me to see them gleaming, and he has a shaky version of that killer flyboy smile.

"Damn, Rabb," I say when I can breathe completely again. "I knew you were impetuous..."

I swear to God, he blushes. I open my mouth to make another smart-ass comment--

\--and the room spins around me. I look up to see Harm looming over me. Wait, haven't I been here already tonight? The blush is still lingering--the tips of his ears are red, and I do _not_ find that cute, I'm a grown man, I don't think of my lovers as "cute"--but he's definitely grinning.

"You want impetuous?" he asks. "I think I can handle that."

He tugs on my sweater; I had forgotten I was wearing clothes, and fairly sticky ones at that. I don't really register being helped out of the rest of my clothes, since Harm has developed a fascination with the scar he finds on my hip and is exploring it with...Christ, his...mouth--

"Harm!"

He pushes my hand away from his head. "What's this from, Clay?"

"Ah...classified..."

He rolls his eyes, and I must be far gone, because even that makes me want him.

"Dammit, Harm!"

He grins again. "I've been waiting for you to say that all night," he says in a surprisingly husky voice.

"Please..."

Before I find myself begging, he shifts slightly, and his lips close around my cock.

I hear a long moan, and although I know I'm the one making noise it doesn't sound like me. Harm has one hand clamped on my hip, lifting me slightly. The other traces a slow line from the base of my cock towards my ass. Just the slightest pressure, there, while his mouth applies another kind of pressure entirely, and suddenly--

I grab his hand. His fingers close on mine as the world goes white.

When reason starts to return, I open my eyes to see him blinking sleepily from the pillow next to mine. His lips are still damp, and when I shift my head to kiss him he tastes like salt and me.

I should say something profound...or at least sarcastic. But all I can say is his name. I feel him smile against my mouth, and one of his hands settles on my stomach.

"Clay," he says in return, and I see him smiling as I fall asleep.


	3. Last Thing I Wanted

Dear Webb,

Or should I say Clay? Christ, this is impossible. I can't even write you a letter without spending ten minutes on the salutation. I shouldn't be writing you at all. You'll be cursing my name while you shred this.

Here's the thing. This--this relationship we're in. Or not in, half the time. I know it's the last thing you wanted. You can't afford any more secrets; your work provides enough of them

Hell, I didn't want it either. I love my career. I don't know who I'd be without it. But my commission is one thing. National security is another. And I know as well as you do that's what we're risking.

What is it, now, six months since we started the damned Plan? Every single day of that six months--every time I open my email or pick up the phone--I've waited for the message from you that it's over, that we can't take the risk any more. And every time I hear from you, whether it's a dinner invitation or some assignment you want to drag JAG into, I'm...I'm relieved. More than I should be.

You think it's just about sex, don't you? Maybe you think it's just the novelty of being with another man. I hate to disappoint you, Webb, but I've been practicing "don't ask, don't tell" for longer than even you know. Going to bed with another man isn't unusual for me.

Waking up with one is, though.

Here's where the impossibility of it all sets in. I accepted my sexuality, and the need to hide it, a long time ago. But I never knew what I was really hiding until now.

It's one thing to give your body to another man, Clay. It's another thing entirely to wake up one morning and realize you've handed over your soul as well.

For the first time, I feel as though I'm breaking the rules I've spent the last decade upholding. I can't stay; this isn't capable of being hidden any more, and I won't destroy your life.

By the time you read this, I'll be on TAD somewhere--I don't know where. Don't try to find out. For once, for just once, accept that someone else knows best.

Goodbye, Clay. I wish--well, you know what I wish, don't you?

Love,  
-H-


	4. Like I Never Loved Before

_The only connection they shared was that the government held the mortgage on their lives, and that was the only thing they'd ever have in common.  
\--Friendly Fire, by Caroline Crane_

The doorbell was barely audible over the noise from the television screen. After the second or third chime, Harm muted the TV and grumbled his way to the door.

He stopped by the living room window; if it was his assistant, Ensign Morse, he might just lock the door and hide under the bed. She didn't seem all that fond of him, but still considered it her job to mother him. Or big-sister him. Or boss him around. Or something.

But the car in his driveway wasn't Donna Morse's neat gray Saturn, but an unfamiliar SUV. He frowned slightly, checked his T-shirt and jeans for food stains in case it was unexpectedly official, and opened the door.

It was unexpected, all right. "Webb."

"Rabb." Clayton Webb took off his sunglasses and gave him a stiff smile. "Can I come in?"

"Um..." Every brain cell in Harm's head seemed dead from shock. He finally forced his arm to open the door all the way. "I guess."

Webb shot him an ironic look, but Harm noticed that he was careful not to brush against him as he entered. Harm closed the door carefully--overcarefully--behind Webb. He stared at his hands on the doorframe. His thoughts had gone from dead to wild, but they still made no sense. He sucked a breath in and followed Webb into the living room.

Webb was focused on the silent plane on the TV screen. "What's this?"

"Black Sheep Squadron." Webb was as casually dressed as Harm had ever seen him. His khaki slacks looked as freshly pressed as always, but the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up and an extra button was open. Harm found himself staring at the skin revealed. Throat...okay. Obsessing over the man's elbows...a little weird.

"You have a TV," Webb said, jerking Harm out of his lower-arm-induced trance.

He shrugged. "I don't have a moral problem with television. I just didn't have one in my old place." He'd bought the TV his third day here, after two nights of staring at the ceiling listening to nothing.

Since the reason for that was standing in front of him, Harm shook off the memory. "Now that we've discussed my decorating principles--"

Webb looked around the living room walls, bare except for the few things Harm's mother had brought from San Diego on her last trip, then at the furniture, which consisted of a recliner and a cardboard box holding the TV remote, and raised an eyebrow.

"--or lack thereof, why are you here, Webb?"

Webb was still looking away. His hands were in his pockets, and his shoulders were hunched slightly forward. He looked--unsure, defensive, *something*--as he never had before.

"You've applied for a permanent assignment here."

"Clay! Webb. You're not even supposed to know where I'm stationed."

"You told me not to ask. I never agreed. Did you really think I wouldn't know? I had your orders before you did."

"Christ."

"You sold your apartment last month. Your friend Kate loves it, by the way. Although I don't know how she affords it on a lieutenant's pay." Harm flinched. "You really should have asked at least the price you paid, even selling to a friend."

"I--ah--I hadn't finished the remodeling yet. It wasn't--"

"Bullshit," Webb said. Harm didn't visibly flinch this time. "And you shipped your father's car back to San Diego. I think that's when...everyone realized that you really weren't coming back."

"What did you expect? Six months temporary duty, and then back to the status quo? We could go back to being Lt. Commander Rabb and Agent Webb again?"

"The correct title is Officer, not Agent," Webb said absently.

Harm stepped forward and grabbed Webb's arm, yanking his gaze from the TV. "Did you want to be *friends* again, Clay?"

One of Webb's hands came up to trap Harm's hand on his arm. "No," he said harshly. "*No.*"

He started to say something else, but Harm was too busy kissing him to listen.

***

 _Why is my couch so hard?_ Harm thought. Then he realized he was on the floor. Webb, of course, looked almost comfortable on the couch, even with his pants and briefs pushed down to his knees.

"Well, that was...enlightening," Webb said. His smile seemed even more smug than the situation seemed to warrant.

"I would have said messy," Harm said, scowling down at his jeans. "I need to change."

"Good idea." Webb was still smiling as he stripped off his shirt.

Harm tried to look only at the shirt and not at the man tossing it away, wearing only hastily-zipped pants and an undershirt, still flushed and breathing heavily. "I'll be right back," he said, and tried not to hurry away.

***

Harm stuck his head in the refrigerator. He shivered as the cool of the fridge hit his flushed cheeks and chest. "I have, uh, beer, water, and some vitamin fruit drink...thing." He stared at the pink bottle in his hand. "Ah. Donna."

"Donna?"

Harm turned to see Webb standing at the counter, fiddling with the coffeemaker.

"My paralegal. She thinks her job description includes 'mother the lawyers.' Last week it was energy bars." Harm shuddered at the memory and shoved the drink far, far away.

Webb was looking faintly amused, but by the time the coffee was made and the two faced each other across Harm's kitchen table, both men were solemn again. Harm toyed with the cap of his water bottle and tried not to think about what they'd been doing on the couch, and if it would ever happen again. Why are you here, Webb? I assume you didn't fly across four time zones--"

"Five, actually."

"--for a chat."

Webb's laugh was short and not very amused. "No, I didn't."

"Well?"

"There have been some discussions at the CIA I thought you should be aware of."

They knew. They knew and were letting Harm resign before he was court-martialed. He tried to keep his expression blank and ignored the small flare of relief. "Yes?"

"Oh, relax," Webb said, almost sharply. "Whatever you're thinking, I guarantee you're wrong."

"You're such a bastard, Webb."

For some reason, that brought the grin back momentarily.

Harm took a breath. "What's going on?"

"You remember the Wall of Honor at CIA Headquarters?"

"Of course."

"My father has a star on there, as a CIA officer killed in the line of duty. His name isn't next to it, of course. I always thought a few lines in marble were a poor substitute for knowing what happened to someone you love."

Harm only nodded.

"There are some people within the agency who argue that we need to make more of an effort to reach out to families like mine. Like yours."

"Do they?"

"Families whose loved ones are mysteriously missing or dead shouldn't have to deal with people like me." Webb looked briefly amused again. "They need someone who understands what they're going through. Someone who can advocate for their rights within the Agency. It would help if that somene had the legal and security background that would let him understand confidentiality and clearance restrictions. I hear you're good with kids," he added in the tone of an afterthought.

"You're offering me a job?" Harm tried to figure out his own reaction. "You're offering me a job?"

"And they said you weren't bright. One more repetition and I think you'll have it, Rabb."

"Wait. That only solves half our problem."

"Are you pointing that out because you're truly concerned or because you don't want to reject me outright?"

Harm stood up. "It was nice seeing you, Webb. Feel to stop in the next time you're on the island."

Webb reached out and wrapped his hand around Harm's wrist. Harm stilled. "Don't. Please."

Harm managed to sit down without dislodging Webb's loose grip.

"The CIA doesn't have an official policy on same-sex relationships. They do, of course, have very strict policies on things you can be blackmailed for. If you--having a relationship with someone who wasn't under that risk could be tolerated."

"I see." Harm rubbed his forehead with his free hand.

"Unofficially, yes, I would probably find myself spending more and more time analyzing other field reports instead of generating ones of my own. And there might be other repercussions." His hand flexed around Harm's wrist.

"But you'd be okay with that."

"Oh, I'd probably complain about it constantly." But Webb was smiling again, and Harm thought he was probably smiling back.

"Good. Otherwise I'd worry that you'd had a complete personality change."

"You'll notice I'm only giving up part of my career, and asking you to do all the really hard things. I haven't changed that much, have I?"

Harm just looked at him, and kept looking until Webb had to look away. "This is a lot to take in, I know," Webb said, staring fixedly at his coffee cup. "Do you want to call me when you've had time--"

He started to pull his hand away from Harm, and Harm reached out with his free hand to stop him.

"I've only been here six months. I bet Donna can have me packed and ready to go in a week, what do you think?"

Webb looked back up, and for once Harm could tell that they were thinking and feeling the same things. Surprise, anticipation, fear, even amusement...and hope. "You're sure."

" _We're_ sure."

Webb nodded once, dumbly, then for no apparent reason burst out laughing. "Yeah. We're sure."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this series in March 2002 with the third story, which was my very first slash story ever. I wrote the other two stories shortly thereafter, and never quite got around to finishing the fourth. It was my third story for the wip_it_good challenge, so thanks again to svmadelyn.
> 
> This story is first and foremost for one of my best friends, gem225. We met when I posted that first story more than three years ago. We've managed to stay friends even after we both drifted away from JAG fandom, and she's always been sort of wistful that the series was never completed. Thanks for waiting for me, Gail. (She betaed the story too!)
> 
> carolinecrane was also one of my early betas and encouragers in this fandom (along with anne_higgins, who I shouldn't forget). I'm glad she's still here too. :) The quote at the beginning of the story is from her JAG fic Friendly Fire.


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